Maslow's hierarchy of needs
by Shinichi06
Summary: Maslow's hierarchy in relation to Sherlock Holmes, and how he views the so called five basic needs. Drabble/oneshot


FF – Sherlock

Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs – Oneshot

Warnings: Vaguely proof-read, raw and potentially dreadful grammar.  
>Summary: Maslow's hierarchy in relation to Sherlock Holmes, and how he views the so called five basic needs.<br>Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Watson, mentions of Lestrade and Mycroft

Disclaimer: Own nothing.

**Self-Actualisation **

It was how Sherlock operated, hopping across cases, and it was only complicated cases that he would even consider considering. His mind fed on the adrenaline of action, his heart would only beat for the excitement of an illogical puzzle. Without spontaneity, his life was empty, and he needed, not wanted, the flurry of pressure that would exert itself on him.

He was only alive when he could work, but he wouldn't ever admit to being a workaholic, because he was far from it. Work was the very _essence_ of his life. John knew that, of course, but knowing wasn't quite the same as understanding. He had caught his flatmate rolling his eyes and walking away as he explained how puzzles were his food, and so by logic he was eating, quite well in fact.

John didn't understand, but Sherlock knew John tried to, as he watched his flatmate smuggle a bag of puzzle books into his room and locked himself up, claiming that he needed time to himself.

Maybe he should put the kettle to boil and prepare a cup of tea for when John decides to come out.

**Esteem**

Sherlock used to smirk inwardly at the admiration of others, when they would exclaim at how amazing his mind was, and how much of an ingenious prodigy he was. But that was when he was younger, much younger, and he was foolish then, scarce as he would like to admit. It was stupid to rise to the praise of others, and to feel pride at their words, because it was meaningless, and it also meant that their insults and abuse would touch him and hurt him.

Over the years, it became easier to ignore the words that had turned offensive towards him, as easy as it was to retort with an intelligent criticism, and eventually, those words had lost meaning to him. Mere letters and sounds, they had become. He would recognise that he had forgotten what it was like to feel acknowledgement, but it was inconsequential, and he regarded the need to be complimented as trivial and dull.

Lestrade's recognition in his abilities was a little different. Sherlock knew Lestrade relied on him to make up for his own incompetence at times, and he assumed the trust to be one that rose from the Detective Inspector's need to survive, because he thought Lestrade didn't quite treat him as a human being, but rather like a puzzle solving machine. Like how a person would acknowledge a computer's capabilities.

It was not until John praised his thinking with delight, did Sherlock feel the warmth from the attention he had inadvertently accepted, because John did more than recognise and acknowledge it, John subconsciously picked at his understanding to understand how he understood.

**Love/Belonging**

As much as others would like to believe otherwise, Sherlock did have a place of belonging – inside his own head. He had been residing perfectly well in his own mental asylum, ever since his house with mummy and Mycroft had ceased to be a home and he had, like his brother, left to wander the world aimlessly with no more than a need to quench that desire for survival, his need to work his mind. The white washed walls of their mansion in Dover had become nothing more than an empty shell that held echoes and unwanted memories.

Friendship was a weak string that would hold people together, the classmates that he met in the University would only speak nicely to him when they needed to sponge off his thesis, and when graduation was long past none of them would bother to stay in contact, unless they needed help, because to them, Sherlock was exactly that. He had never become more than that, and he never bothered to try, because they were foolish and it was tiring.

It came to Sherlock with much surprise and it was unexpected when the bomb by the pool exploded and he flung himself and John into the chlorine infested waters that he really wanted nothing more than to be back at 221B Baker Street with the lousy television switched on in the background, while he and John would discuss with languid exchanges of the previous case, the scent of Darjeeling and fresh oatmeal scones that Mrs Hudson had offered as a special treat.

**Safety**

Sherlock really did have regard for his own safety. It was always fascinating and exciting to throw caution into the wind and do things that he deemed fit, but every risk that he took was always carefully calculated. Not too much, because he always knew where the limit was, but just enough to have a cheap thrill.

For example, contrary to belief, flying a kite in a thunderstorm would induce a temporary electrical shock, but not severe enough to cause instant death because most of it would past through the body and leave through the ground. Not that he had tried to, obviously, because he wasn't insane to that extent. He just preferred to not have a riot starting outside his place of residence if the public were to know that he had tried it on a stray dog.

In his defence, the dog had rabies, but would the people listen? No, they obviously wouldn't. People in England could be quite dangerous when riled up, that much he knew.

But yes, he did attempt to investigate the effect saturated hydrochloric acid had when subjected to high frequency microwave. It was mostly why he was expelled from his previous house, having blown it up in pieces. (Mycroft had paid for the damages incurred quietly, but Sherlock preferred to pretend that the landlord was in a good mood and decided to not press charges.)

So when John warned him very loudly that the next time he opened the bottle of milk to find insect larvae wriggling in it he would personally render Sherlock permanently immobile with an interesting acupuncture technique he had picked up while abroad, he decided that just _maybe,_ he should keep some of his experiments away from the kitchen after all.

**Physiological**

Oxygen was important to Sherlock, obviously, because without it his brain couldn't function, and he would be worse than just dead. He would be alive, but brain-dead, and such a thought was actually quite horrifying. Food, however, Sherlock found it a chore. Glucose weighted on his thought process unnecessarily, because his mind would be vaguely distracted with the digestion process that took place in his body for some reason. Eating in particular also left Sherlock sleepy, which was frustrating because he was busy with trying to be busy.

The excitement of running on purely pressure and exhilaration was an obsession that he liked to maintain, because everyone else had already disagreed with his abuse of cocaine, and he actually bent to that will. (It was yet another thing that Sherlock would like to keep private, that the aftereffects of cocaine usage were quite unwelcome, because it left him worse for wear and it was more difficult to think after that. But if the people, Lestrade especially, were happy believing that Sherlock had surrendered to their persistence, then so be it, because trying to convince them otherwise would be too troublesome.)

John, on the other hand, would scoff at Sherlock's attempt to escape meal times and threatened to tie him to the dining chair with industrial tape did he sulkily sit before the television with John, a plate of cold potato salad on his lap.

"Mother hen."

"Old cock."


End file.
